This is laid out flat, like a map

whatever has meaning in life

must vex to a halt, a

meticulous picture of every­thing you need

and need to know,

can’t have, and won’t.

The perfectionists, the mad

no tolerance for

the sound of water boil­ing.

It’s coffee-time in seven

of seven con­ti­nents, and here

my cig­a­rette burns, 

yellow smoke rings.

That boy.

I hate myself for lov­ing

he sleeps under warm, downy blankets

I remain cold,

leav­ing me all too bleak

Cutting.

Nights like these

the weak take over

Creeds clos­ing in

promises of com­fort

Acrid endings.

No time for confessions

I am still blinded by the sun, 

Always arising, coming up

pre­dictable as crops

At all hours does this heart of mine

destruct.

Waxes equidistantly.